


Answers to Prayers, and Other Fucked Up Things

by ireallyhatecornnuts (CharleyFoxtrot)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharleyFoxtrot/pseuds/ireallyhatecornnuts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Say to them therefore: "You have no peace." - The Book of Enoch</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dean makes a deal, and Crowley is (as usual) an asshole.</p><p>AU after 8x14 - Trial and Error</p>
            </blockquote>





	Answers to Prayers, and Other Fucked Up Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calicokat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calicokat/gifts).



 Dean listened carefully for signs that Sam was awake. It was a habit borne of necessity, something he’d done almost every day of his childhood and teen years, and it was _entirely_ too easy to slip back into it.

Even here, in the bunker, Dean found himself unconsciously listening for the sounds that alerted him to Sam’s presence. Now, however, he listened _just_ long enough to ascertain that his baby brother had gone to bed.

That he couldn’t hear what Dean was about to say.

“Hey, Cas,” he murmured, settling himself down to the edge of the bed. It had been on his mind ever since they left Idaho; they hadn’t heard from Cas in a while, a good long while, and that was worrying.

It shouldn’t be worrying, but it _was_. Sometimes, Dean wished it were the good old days, post-hell, because at least _then_ he didn’t give a damn.

Dean paused, giving the angel a chance to reply, but nothing happened. He gathered his thoughts for a few seconds.

“Kinda worried about you, man,” he said. His voice fell against the walls of his room, echoing back to him. Like the plaster wanted to remind him that he was alone.

“Been gone for a while,” he continued. It was true; several weeks had passed since he’d seen Cas _(since he’d killed Samandriel)_ and he stopped, remembering _that_ conversation.

_“..If I see what heaven’s become, what I made of it - I’m afraid I might kill myself.”_

He shook his head. “Just, if you can, Cas... Lemme know you’re okay. Alright? Just give us a sign. We’re worried about you.”

“He won’t answer, you know.”

Dean whirled around, jumping to his feet and bringing his arms up in an automatic defensive reaction.

“I know demons can’t get in here,” Dean said, not taking his eyes off the new occupant of his room. “So what are you, then? Angel?”

The man - for that’s what he appeared to be, utterly average in every way - spread his hands peaceably. “Yes, I’m an angel. We’ve met before.”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

The angel chuckled. “I had to take a vessel for the first time in, oh, several millenia now.” He leveled his gaze at Dean. “When you and I last met, you were dead.”

Dean let his hands fall to his sides. “Joshua.”

He nodded. His vessel appeared to be in his fifties and now that Dean had a chance to really look him over, he was kind of pissed that he hadn’t guessed right away. Average height, average build, dark skin, kind eyes, and the kind of peace that only gardeners ever seem to be able to achieve. _Obvious_.

“Why can’t Cas answer?” Dean asked. “Is he - “

“No, he’s not dead,” Joshua said, coming closer.

Dean’s shoulders drooped slightly with this knowledge. “If he’s not dead then why isn’t he _answering_?”

“He’s being held captive,” Joshua said. The smile on his face, beatific though it was, didn’t feel appropriate to the situation. “By an angel named Naomi. Heaven has been in chaos for some time, Dean Winchester; your friend is partially to blame for that.”

“He _screwed up_ ,” Dean said, cutting Joshua off with a harsh slice of his hand through the air. “That doesn’t mean he deserves to be -.”

“You think so?” Joshua interrupted, coming closer, almost Castiel-levels of close. “Your justice system imprisons people for far less.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, voice tight. “But they don’t _torture_ ‘em.”

Joshua just looked at him in response, as if to say, “Oh, _really_?”. Dean felt the air go out of his argument almost immediately, and he sat back down on his bed; partially in an effort to get away from Joshua, but mainly because he was just suddenly _exhausted_. It was always another thing, wasn’t it?

“He can’t fix it if you keep him up there,” Dean muttered.

“That’s true, he can’t,” Joshua agreed. “And that’s why I’m here.”

Dean’s head shot up to regard the old angel.

“Castiel’s imprisonment and manipulation are a bone of contention among the remaining angels,” Joshua informed him. “He’s currently being held in the main hall of the Kingdom of God, unguarded but for what magical protections Naomi has thought to place around him, while my remaining brothers settle their differences; the plan is, I believe, to unlock Lucifer’s cage once again and regain Michael. If you were ever going to rescue your friend, Dean, this is your chance.”

“How long?” Dean said, shooting upright, almost tripping in his haste to get vertical.

“Time moves differently in Heaven,” Joshua said, his gaze turning contemplative. “Perhaps a week here, at most. It would be wise to complete your mission sooner.”

Dean nodded. He’d done more in less time. He started toward his door, fully intending on waking Sam, when a thought occurred to him and he turned back toward Joshua.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Joshua smiled. “An old friend may have complained about the situation to me, recently. And he _may_ have even mentioned that he was surprised that no one had thought to inform the Winchesters, because surely _they_ would help their friend in his time of need. Even if they had failed him in the past.”

Dean stared at Joshua, jaw agape, as Joshua waved farewell and disappeared. After a few moments the immensity of the situation slammed into him.

God had just, essentially, _ordered him_ to rescue his best friend from the clutches of Heaven. And hey, Dean had a beef to pick with the guy, but this might be the one time where he agreed with the fucker.

“Just this once,” he said, glancing upward and shaking his finger. “ _Just this once_ , I’m not some sort of heavenly guard dog, okay?”

And with that, he strode out into hallway.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

Sam had only _just_ fallen asleep when he was roughly shaken back awake. Immediately on high alert, his eyes snapped open and he took in his surroundings.

Unfortunately, his mental processes hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of him, and it was a few seconds before he was able to comprehend that he wasn’t under attack: Dean was waking him up, urgently.

“Wazzgoin on?” Sam slurred out, rubbing his eyes and sitting up in bed.

“I just had a visitor,” Dean said, his face stony.

“Cas?” Sam was automatically on alert.

“No,” Dean said, shaking his head. “Joshua.”

Sam blinked. “ _Joshua_? The angel from the _garden_? What the hell did _he_ want?”

“To tell me that Heaven has Cas,” Dean said. He looked almost put out at the situation, and Sam would have laughed if it weren’t so dire.

“Okay, but what can we do about it?” Sam said. “It’s _Heaven_ , Dean. You have to _die_ to go there.”

“Yeah,” Dean replied, making a face. “I know. And it’s not like Cas can just mojo us alive again. He’s been at half-power since he got back.”

Sam noticed that his brother very carefully didn’t actually mention Purgatory by name.

“I dunno what you want us to do, man,” Sam said.

Dean sighed. “Look, we’ve gotta do _something_ ,” he said. Sam wanted, more than anything, to ask _why_ \- to make Dean say it aloud; but the look on Dean’s face took the words right out of his mouth.

He ran a hand down his face. “Alright,” he said. “Make coffee. It’s gonna be a long night.”

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

Being hunters of the supernatural, both of them were pretty damn familiar with the Bible, but they hadn’t delved too deeply into the apocrypha for a myriad of reasons - Sam because he thought it was useless, mostly, and Dean because he thought it was _boring_.

Still, it was their best bet in finding a way to Heaven without dying, and Sam immediately went for the Biblical section of the library. The Men of Letters had books he’d never even _heard_ of, but on the whole their selection of Biblical literature left a lot to be desired.

“It’s probably because it’s all based on myth,” Sam commented, selecting one of the smaller volumes that looked promising.

Dean shrugged. “More like it was all written by drunks. Cas had a lot to say about Luke.”

Sam snorted and continued browsing.

Eventually the two of them returned to the main room - Dean insisted on calling it the living room, which didn’t feel entirely right to Sam but he let Dean have it - each loaded down with books that were at least as dusty as the Sahara. In an astonishing roll reversal, Dean immediately snatched up a huge tome and Sam took the thin one he’d found earlier.

Three hours later they hadn’t gotten anywhere. Sam had made fresh coffee twice; Dean had gotten up to make sandwiches about an hour ago.

Sam cracked his neck and stretched his arms. The thinner book, which he’d just finished, had a lot to say on the subject of angels as servants of God, but almost nothing on the topic of _rescuing_ one.

“God _damn_ , this is boring,” Dean said. He’d propped his head up on his left hand and was flipping through pages with his left. “Listen to this - ‘And they took and brought me to a place in which those who were there were like flaming fire, and, when they wished, they appeared as men.’ What the hell does that even _mean_?”

Sam sat upright. “Wait a minute, what are you reading?”

“I dunno, something about some dude called Enoch,” Dean said, shifting his head left and then right on his neck. “‘bout as exciting as most Biblical reading is, to be honest.”

“Dean, who do we know who’s nothing but fire and light and sometimes looks like a man?” Sam asked, pointedly.

Dean blinked. “Angels,” he said, frowning and glancing back down. “But he said they took him somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, standing and coming around the table to glance at the book. “You’re reading the Book of Enoch. He’s the reason we call angelic language Enochian - he was the first human to hear it. Supposedly he was taken to Heaven and, I dunno, showed around.”

“Huh,” Dean said. He flipped through a few more pages. “Yeah, here it says an angel - heh, _Uriel_ \- took him to see the Kingdom of God. _Christ_.”

“Apocrypha has it that Enoch is one of the only human who ever went to Heaven without dying and came back,” Sam said. “If he did, that’d be the way to figure it out.”

“But it says you need angelic assistance,” Dean said. “Which we don’t exactly have right now. Seeing as our angelic assistance is currently _stuck in Heaven_.”

Sam sighed and forced himself not to snap at his brother. “Yeah, Dean, but that’s usually a metaphor for something else. Are there any notes or anything?”

Dean flipped through a few more pages. “Kinda? I mean, every now and then someone’s written along the margins. Which, _rude_.”

Sam raised his eyebrow at that, and Dean shrugged.

Another few hours of studying the book and Sam was pretty sure they had all of the information out of it they were going to get (a shit-ton of notes in various languages), and he said as much to Dean.

“Look,” Sam said. “We’re exhausted. We should get some sleep and try again when we wake up.”

“The answer’s gotta be in here,” Dean said, sharply. “If we could just -”

“Look, Dean, I get it,” Sam said, holding his hands out to placate his brother. “You’re worried about Cas. I am too. But we’re no good to him dead on our feet. We have everything we need, we just need, I dunno, clear minds to parse it.”

Dean made a frustrated noise before sighing. “Yeah, I guess,” he said, shoulders slumping. Sam was surprised - he hadn’t expected him to give in without a fight. But he wasn’t gonna look a gift horse in the mouth and within minutes had bullied Dean into the room he’d claimed as his own.

A quick tour around the table cleaned up the garbage and dishes, and a quick trip into the kitchen got rid of them. And that was that - Sam was back in his own bed, letting himself fall unconscious.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

Digging through their notes that afternoon, they managed to translate and decypher the several addendums that had obviously been added to the book centuries after it had been transcribed. One of them even gave them a hint.

“Angelic assistance,” Sam said, staring down at the translation (written on a neon-pink post-it note that had probably offended Dean more than the actual contents of the note).

“Yeah, leave it to Uriel to be a dick and not say what it was,” Dean said. The elder Winchester was grumpy, tired, and guzzling down far more coffee than was probably healthy.

“So what we’re talking about here,” Sam said, setting the note down, “is items that have been blessed by actual angels.”

“Item,” Dean said. “I triple-checked the Latin. Singular. One thing. _One_ thing has been blessed, by Uriel, to let people pass through the gates of Heaven with their bodies and souls.”

“Meaning they aren’t dead,” Sam clarified.

“ _Yes_ ,” Dean said. He glared at Sam and pushed the stack of paper toward him. “Check yourself, _Christ_ , it’s not like I haven’t been reading Latin since I was _seven_.”

Sam opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it, and simply double-checked the translation. Dean was right.

“So we have an incredibly rare item that we need to find, blessed by an angel,” Sam said, frowning. “We have no idea what the item is.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, groaning and stretching slightly. “Normally I’d call Bobby, but...”

He let the sentence fade; neither Winchester was quite over their surrogate father’s death.

“And as much as I like Garth, I don’t think he’s really set up for this level of research,” Sam said, chewing on the end of a pen absently. “You know, the only person I can think of who might have led us in the right direction is Bela, and _she’s_ dead too.”

Dean winced. “Yeah, probably on the fast-track to becoming a _demon_ , and -” He stopped, cold, and turned toward Sam.

It didn’t take a lot of logical leaps for Sam to make the same connection that Dean had.

“ _No_ ,” Sam said, shaking his head. “Absolutely not.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean pleaded. “It’s probably our only shot.”

“We’re _not_ summoning -”

“Dude, it’s not like I can’t -”

“ _No_ , Dean.” Sam crossed his arms. Dean did likewise.

“Yeah, sure, fine,” Dean said. Sam knew the expression on his brother’s face intimately. He groaned.

“You’re just going to do it without me, aren’t you?” he said, bringing his hand up to his forehead and wincing. He could feel a headache coming on already.

“Yep,” Dean said, entirely too cheerful, considering the situation. “So, you gonna back me up, or not?”

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

Because of the level of spellwork and warding imbued in the bricks that the bunker was comprised of, they instead chose an abandoned house in Beloit, several hours’ drive from the bunker. It still made Dean itchy to be driving in the general direction of Lawrence, but hell, it was half a state away. There was no need to be all _weird_ about it.

Well, except for the very real likelyhood that they’d be cursed to smithereens if their soon-to-be guest had even an _inkling_ of what was about to happen.

“I really don’t like this idea,” Sam said. He, being the taller brother, was stretching up, arms above him, painting sigils along the bumpy-textured ceiling. Once, back when Cas was kinda-falling and the end of the world was approaching (after Sam had said yes but before they’d cornered him at Stull), Cas had gone into a lengthy diatribe about how the symbols worked, which angels’ protection they called on, but he’d been sort of drunk and Dean had been mourning his brother, so he hadn’t paid attention.

If Castiel ever felt so inclined again, Dean promised himself he’d do better next time.

“Alright, I’m done,” he said, ignoring Sam and crouching on the floor. He set the brush and paint to the side and wiped his hands on his jeans.

“Seriously, Dean, this is a bad idea,” Sam reiterated. He finished what he was doing and hopped off the chair that had been doing double-duty as a footstool.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean said, standing. He shrugged. “I haven’t got any better ideas. You?”

Sam was silent for several moments, before he sighed. “No, I don’t,” he said, shaking his head. He headed toward the table, the kind of shitty fold-up card table that abandoned houses always seemed to come equipped with; they’d set it up as a sort of makeshift altar. Sighing, Sam started chanting out the appropriate Latin and sprinkling herbs over the fire they’d lit in Bobby’s old stone bowl.

Several seconds passed and then, very suddenly, they were playing host to the King of Hell.

Crowley looked at his feet, and then at his head; two different kinds of Devil’s traps held him in, and there was a (probably overkill, but hey: _King of Hell_ ) ring of salt barring him from reaching the two brothers.

“You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me,” he said.

“Surprise,” Dean said, smirking. He waved, with his right hand, the one currently holding Ruby’s knife. Always best to be prepared, after all.

Crowley looked to be visibly restraining himself from hurling his meatsuit through the protections as it was.

“I cannot think of a single reason why I shouldn’t put a bounty on your heads,” he said, voice pleasant and completely at odds with his furious expression.

“Oh, you hear that, Sammy?” Dean said, grinning. “He hasn’t put a bounty on us yet. _Civilized_.”

“I’ve been occupied,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “ _Please_ tell me you want to deal. I can’t think of a more entertaining evening than stripping the meat off your bones.”

“No deals,” Sam interrupted, glaring at Dean. “We just want information.”

“You do realize you interrupted one of my contracts,” Crowley said. “By all rights I ought to slaughter the both of you anyway.”

“Oh come on, that was _one_ contract,” Dean protested. “And she was _really_ hot.”

Crowley’s eyes flashed red. “Oh, I know,” he said. If anything, his grin broadened. “And yet, somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to, ah - what is it you Americans say? Oh, right.” He brought his fingers up to make air-quotes, and Dean was disorientingly reminded of Castiel. “‘Tap that.’ I _do_ wonder why.”

Sam looked at Dean a little oddly, but he plowed through anyway. “Look, you want information about what Heaven’s up to, right? We have some. We need information too. Fair trade.”

Crowley looked extraordinarily put out, but after a few seconds he nodded. “Fine.” He looked around the room they were in and sneered. “I would ask for a chair but I suppose that’s a little beyond your means at this point.”

Dean smirked, swinging the only chair in the room toward himself and sitting on it backwards, letting his arms rest along the top. Drawing up his reserves of swagger and projecting a facade of confidence that he in no way felt, he pointed Ruby’s knife at Crowley, tip-first.

“We wanna know about Enoch. Start talkin’.”

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

When it rains, it pours. Crowley was, in fact, a veritable _fountain_ of information about the fabled prophet - _after_ , of course, they let loose with Naomi’s plans to (they were fairly certain) lay siege to Hell to re-obtain Michael. This alarmed Crowley enough to loosen his lips.

“Not a prophet anymore, lads,” he said, smirking around the glass of whiskey he’d managed to convince Sam to give him.

“Yeah, he’d have to be dead by now,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “Doesn’t really help us.”

“I know it might be a little beyond you,” Crowley said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. “But did you never think to finish the damned book? Enoch ascended to Heaven without having ever died; it was his reward for his piety. According to legend, he was transformed into an angel - and not just any angel, but the Metatron.”

“Christ,” Dean said, rearing back.

Crowley sniffed. “Careful with that word. I might decide I don’t want to deal.”

Sam smirked. “Right,” he said. “Anyway, the point is, he had an item that Uriel blessed that allowed him to go to Heaven - and come back. Any ideas?”

“Ah, you’d be looking for Enoch’s pen,” Crowley said. His expression turned thoughtful. “More of a stylus really, you know how it was in Mesopotamia back then.”

“Okay, so we’re looking for a pen. Stylus,” Sam said, frowning. “Any ideas where it is?”

The demon glared daggers at him for several seconds before he suddenly smiled. It was alarming, and the brothers shot a wary glance at each other.

“It just so happens that I’m in possession of Enoch’s pen,” he said, smirking. “Came to me from someone I’ve heard you two might know - Bela Talbot? Ringing any bells? Of course, she was still _alive_ back then, had no idea I was a demon.” His smirk widened. “I might even be convinced to part with it - _if_ one of you louts happened to be willing to strike a proper deal.”

“ _No_ ,” Sam said, at the exact same time Dean said, “I’ll do it.”

Sam turned toward Dean, face tight with anger. “Dean, you’re not selling your soul to Hell _again_.”

Dean wasn’t looking at Sam, but Crowley, when he spoke next. “If Naomi wins and Michael goes free, I’m lookin’ at an eternity of torture either way, Sammy.”

“No way. I know you want to rescue Cas, Dean, but -”

“Oh, that’s terribly sweet,” Crowley said, practically cooing. It was kind of disturbing. “You want to run off to the rescue of your angel boyfriend. _Really_ , Winchester, I didn’t know you had it in you to be selfish. Bravo on finally growing a spine.”

“Dean -” Sam said, reaching for his brother.

“ _Dammit_ , Sam,” Dean said, whirling around. “It’s _my_ soul to deal, not yours. Back off.”

There was a beat of silence and then Crowley began chuckling.

“I _really_ wanted to let it go on, but it was starting to get maudlin,” he said, head tilted back in his mirth. “You might be interested to know, boys, that I’m not at _all_ interested in your souls.”

They both froze before turning toward the demon.

“Not that the idea of driving hooks through your skulls for all eternity isn’t pleasant,” Crowley continued, wiping tears from his eyes. “Because it is. Oh, God, trust me, it is. But if I got my hands on either of you, you can rest assured that I wouldn’t trust your eternal punishment to anyone but me,” and at this he splayed the fingers of his right hand across his chest. “And I’m the King of Hell, boys. I have a business to run. I just don’t have the _time_ to dally around with recreation like that. Not right now, anyway. Maybe in a few hundred years things will settle down enough and I can take a bit of a holiday.”

“If you don’t want our souls, then what do you want?” Sam asked, voice tight.

“I’m afraid I don’t want anything from you, Moose,” Crowley said, brightly. “Not that you aren’t just absolutely adorable, but I like my men a little more on the _pretty_ side.”

“I - _what_?” Sam asked. He looked desperately confused.

Crowley turned his gaze toward Dean. “See, Squirrel, you have a cute little arse, and while I might not have time for an _extended_ vacation, well,” and he spread his hands out. Like the conclusion they could draw was obvious.

Which actually, it kind of was.

“What,” Dean said. He didn’t want to know what kind of face he was making because he had a sinking suspicion that it was a cross between mortified, confused, and _(dammit)_ intrigued.

“You’re _seriously_ asking my brother to _whore himself out_ for an angelic artifact,” Sam said.

“All’s fair in love and war,” Crowley said, a nasty smile on his face. “Of course, if you never want to see your precious angel again, just go ahead and let me go. I’ll even promise not to kill you, since you so _graciously_ gave me the information that I need to fortify my defenses.”

Dean was staring at him, jaw agape. He was also uncomfortably aware that Sam was staring at _him_ , and finally he turned toward Sam and snapped, “ _What_?”

Sam fidgeted, uncomfortably. “I just - are you gonna do it?”

“Wait, let me get this straight,” Dean said, unconsciously raising Ruby’s knife to gesture at his brother. “You don’t want me to sell my soul, but you’re _totally okay_ with me taking it up the ass? What the _fuck_ , man?”

Sam huffed out a breath. “It’s not really the same thing, Dean,” he said. “Besides, haven’t you --?”

“What? _No!_ I’m not _gay_ , Sam,” he said, glaring. He pointedly ignored Crowley, who was muttering something about how the lady doth protest too much.

Sam looked startled. “I never said you were,” he said, hands up, placating. “But you know, bisexual _is_ a thing, and -”

“Oh my fucking _God_ ,” Dean said. He momentarily forgot he was hold a razor-sharp knife in his hand and very nearly stabbed himself in the neck as he brought his hands up to his head. He then contemplated the knife, and seriously considered _actually_ stabbing himself in the neck. _Anything_ to avoid this conversation.

Sam sighed his frustration. “I dunno, I just thought you’d have, by now,” he said, side-eyeing his brother heavily. “If not with Cas, then some other guy.”

“I’m not talking about this. _We’re not talking about this,_ ” Dean said, gesturing with the knife. Then he paused. “Wait, with _Cas_? What the _fuck_ , Sam? He’s an _angel_.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. He started gathering their things, angrily. “I’ll be in the car, _you complete closeted jackass who’s in love with an angel_.”

“Called it,” Crowley said, from his spot in the Devil’s Trap.

“Shut the hell up,” Dean said, whirling toward him and gesturing with the knife again. “This is all your fault, you asshole.”

Crowley grinned. “Outing your big gay love affair? I’ll take _all_ the credit for that, love.”

“ _I’m not in love with Castiel_ ,” Dean ground out, teeth clenched.

“You can’t lie to the King of Hell, pretty boy,” Crowley said, looking absolutely delighted. He tapped his forehead. “Built-in lie detector. Comes with the package.”

Sam huffed and grabbed the last duffel from the corner. “Whatever. I’m out of here. Come out when you finish... _whatever_ ,” and he made a sort of vague gesture with his free hand before storming out of the abandoned house.

Dean glared after him for probably longer than was necessary before, reluctantly, turning back toward Crowley.

“Well?” Crowley asked, an undeniable smirk on his face. Dean resisted the urge to stab him, and swallowed.

Hard.

“No soul deals, you give us the pen and the location of the Heaven’s Gate, and you don’t put a bounty out on us _or_ Cas,” Dean said, gesturing with the knife again. He considered for a second and grimaced. “And you don’t kill me while you’re...doing your thing.”

“Buggering the daylights out of you,” Crowley supplied, gleefully clapping his hands together once. “It’s a deal, mate. You _do_ know how deals are sealed, right? Not your first rodeo, as you Yanks like to say?”

Dean wrinkled his nose, but he sighed and nodded. He pulled the chair, long abandoned, closer to him; stretching, he was able to etch a line in the still-wet paint of the Devil’s Trap on the ceiling. After he jumped down from the chair, he repeated the process with the trap on the floor.

“Ah, if you could put your poker down,” Crowley said, gesturing to the knife. Dean ground his teeth, but he backed up from the demon and set the knife down on the floor, out of the way where Crowley would have a hard time getting at it quickly.

Crowley held his hand out, a sly smirk on his face, and Dean took a breath and let it out through his nose, steeling himself.

Yeah, this was gonna get ugly, fast.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

Sulfur.

That was really his first - and only - impression: _sulfur_. Kissing Crowley was like licking a matchbook. A really damp, _slimy_ matchbook.

“Deal’s sealed,” Crowley said, pulling away with a nasty smile on his face. “But you’re gonna have to be a bit more enthusiastic about it than that, mate.”

Dean ground his teeth together again and instead reached for the hem of his shirt. Crowley looked amused but let him continue on with it, waiting until he was almost completely naked but for his boxer briefs to stop him.

“Worst strip tease in the history of mankind,” the demon commented, smirking. “And I’ve seen some pretty terrible ones in my day.”

“Didn’t know you wanted seductive,” Dean threw out, forcing himself to smile. “I was going more for functional, but -”

He didn’t get a chance to continue, because Crowley interrupted him with a blast of demonic mojo that, any other time, would have been pants-shittingly terrifying. As it was, Dean didn’t really expect it, and he was surprised to find himself pinned face-down to the old, mouldy couch, underwear suddenly _gone_.

“Blegh,” he said, pulling his face out of the fabric. “Jesus Christ, this couch is older than _I_ am.”

“Not quite,” Crowley said, from somewhere behind him. Dean could hear the very-unmistakable sound of someone unzipping and he swallowed, burying his face back into the terrible couch.

He was expecting a multitude of things: pain, tearing, hell, even _burning_ (it was a demon back there, after all). What he wasn’t expecting was a warm, wet _tongue_ to lick a stripe down one of his asscheeks.

“What -” he began, lifting his head and starting to turn.

“Don’t _talk_ ,” Crowley said, disgusted. “You’ll just ruin it.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see the demon wave his hand, and suddenly he was completely unable to form words. Any sounds that came out of his mouth were completely incomprehensible.

“Should have done that _years_ ago,” Crowley said, sounding satisfied. Dean buried his face back into the couch just in time - Crowley parted his asscheeks, dragging a finger along one side and drawing a shudder out of him.

He wasn’t supposed to _like_ this, dammit.

He sat there, exposed, tensed, _waiting_ , for several uncomfortable seconds, before he could sense Crowley moving behind him. Several more seconds, and then -

He let out an incomprehensible yelp, jerking upright as he felt Crowley’s tongue again, this time flicking across his asshole. A hand, demon-strong, pushed itself against his back and forced him back into the couch.

“ _Down_ , boy,” Crowley said, amused. He held Dean there, pinned, until he stopped fidgeting, and went back to work.

Jesus Christ. His tongue was flickering across Dean’s asshole, making him twitch his hips. Small, sharp sparks of pleasure were uncurling across his spine, and against his will his cock started to twitch between his legs.

He let out another yelp, pressing his face deeper into the couch and bringing his hands up to grope at the cushions; the demon had pressed just the very tip of his tongue _into_ Dean’s ass, Jesus _Christ_ that wasn’t supposed to feel this good. This whole thing was supposed to be miserable, but he was _shaking_ with the effort of not thrusting his hips into the empty air between him and the couch cushions; his legs were tense, his dick heavy between his legs, and _fuck_ he was actually turned on. That _wasn’t right_.

Crowley chuckled, which was just weird because he could feel it, right _there_ , right between his legs, and it sent a shiver of _want_ straight from his asshole to his stomach.

The demon fucked into his ass with his tongue, slowly, curling it just that little bit every now and then; after a few minutes he started adding fingers to the mix, and Dean was having a _really_ hard time not moaning. God, this was a _disaster_.

The little fucker was moving outward now, two fingers buried knuckle-deep in him alongside his tongue, and using his other hand to just barely graze over the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, occasionally caressing his balls, _purposely_ avoiding his cock; eventually he pressed down, gently, on the sensitive skin between his balls and his asshole and Dean let loose with the moan he’d been trying to hold in this entire time.

 _Fuck_ , he mouthed into the couch cushion.

Crowley smiled; Dean should know, he could feel the demon’s lips stretching against his asshole. And wasn’t _that_ just the weirdest thing ever.

No, this - Crowley starting to move his fingers - _that_ was the weirdest thing ever. But _fuck_. He let out a strangled noise as the demon pushed them further inside, along with his tongue; there weren’t _words_ to describe how turned on and horrified he was. His skin had broken out in goosebumps and he felt like he was on _fire_ , like he was melting from the inside. And then he was pulling them back out, pushing them back in, sending his hips thrusting up against the empty air.

He was moaning outright now, muffled, meaningless noises escaping from his mouth as he tried (and failed) to chant, “fuck, fuck fuck _fuck_ ,” into the fabric of the couch. Crowley twisted his fingers slightly, which had the immediate effect of Dean tensing up and clenching his eyes so tightly he saw fucking _stars_.

Then he was empty.

That son of a _bitch_.

He whined, pushing his hips back, belatedly realizing how badly he was begging for it from basically his arch-nemesis. This point clearly wasn’t lost on Crowley, who laughed outright at him but, thank _Christ_ , didn’t say anything.

Then there was a dull pressure against his asshole, and he winced slightly, tensing.

“Calm down,” Crowley said, voice smooth as silk. God, this was going to _kill_ him. “Seriously, calm down or this is going to _hurt_.”

Dean whimpered slightly, but obeyed. He could hear Crowley’s breathing behind him, not even strained _(that fucker)_ and he forced himself to unclench, slowly, relaxing his muscles like some kind of Tao Buddhist. There was a moment of stillness, and then the pressure was back, slow and gliding (had Crowley fucking _lubed up?_ Seriously?), inching inward, until suddenly Dean could feel the demon’s legs against the back of his thighs.

Dean trembled; he’d been through forty years of Hell; a year in Purgatory fighting monsters every step of the way, even, and he still couldn’t remember a moment where he’d felt this vulnerable in his _life_. His skin felt too tight, too hot around him, and more than anything he felt _full_.

Crowley chuckled again, his laughter breaking the silence and drawing Dean back to the present just in time for the demon to start moving.

Oh _fuck_.

He could feel it - and the harsh reality was that it was a cock, up his ass, and even worse it was _Crowley’s_ cock (his meatsuit’s cock?).

And it felt _awesome_.

Dean whined, his fingernails digging into the couch cushions, pushing his ass into the air, practically begging for it. He could feel Crowley rolling his hips behind him, their skin connecting in a wet slap every second or two, and the fullness inside him lighting him up from his toes (curled up like he was in some kind of fucking romance novel, for _fuck’s sake_ ) all the way up his spine. He could hear the moment when Crowley actually started getting into it, too, because his breathing became harsh and panting, finally matching up to Dean’s own.

There was a pressure, burning and hot, building in Dean’s gut; the urge to come was _overwhelming_ , and he pumped forward futilely into the air, groaning in frustration as he tried to seek completion.

“Calm down, Squirrel,” Crowley said, leaning over him from behind, whispering into his ear and making his skin crawl. He shuddered, hunching over; he could feel the other man’s hand creeping down his hip, toward his cock, and he whined. “Don’t say I never did anything for you,” the demon whispered; Dean could practically _feel_ him leering at him.

Finally, _finally_ , Crowley wrapped his hand around Dean’s dick; it was slick with lube and saliva and God knows what else, and it felt _amazing_. Dean moaned, lifting his head and biting his lip as the demon began to stroke.

“That’s it,” Crowley said. He was panting in Dean’s ear now, which goddamnit, _shouldn’t turn him on_ , but it _did_ , and that was that. Dean tensed up, pushing his face back into the couch and letting loose with some sort of high-pitched whining noise that absolutely did _not_ sound girly, before coming all over Crowley’s hand and probably permanently staining the horrible couch below him.

Shudders wracked through his body as he tensed and relaxed in bursts; behind him he could hear sounds that indicated that Crowley was busting a nut too, which should _probably_ alarm him more (since it was his ass that was being defiled), but he was busy having one of the better orgasms of his life.

Finally, he slumped over, his left knee connecting with the wet mess he’d just made. And he just stayed there for a while, panting, hoping beyond hope that Crowley would just _go away_. It was bad enough that he felt like some sort of hooker without needing to look the john in the eye.

He winced slightly when the demon pulled out a second later, and stayed where he was until he was sure he heard the sounds that meant, thank _fuck_ , Crowley was getting dressed.

He slowly stretched out, uncramping some muscles, as he reached for his clothes. His underwear was nowhere to be seen, but there was no way he was asking Crowley to rematerialize the fucking things for him, so he just angrily shoved his legs back into his jeans, ignoring the mess it was going to make because, yes, that was come trickling down his leg, _gross_. It occurred to him belatedly that he should have demanded that the asshole wear a condom; it would be Winchester luck that he caught some sort of fucked-up demon STD.

Once he was dressed, he turned and regarded the other man, went to speak, and then glared at him.

“Oh, right, you probably want to be able to talk,” Crowley said. He smirked. “I’ve half a mind to keep it that way; wouldn’t it just be a _shame_ to deprive the world of your dulcet tones?” He chuckled at his own joke for a few seconds, but then he waved his hand and Dean could feel the muscles in his throat unclench.

“You’re an ass,” he informed him.

Crowley smirked, but from his pocket he produced a piece of paper, and from another, a stick of what looked like reed. “The coordinates and the stylus, as promised,” he said, presenting them with something resembling a flourish. Dean snatched them from his hand and stalked over to the corner, retrieving Ruby’s knife and shoving it into the waistband of his pants.

“A word of advice,” Crowley said, crowding into Dean’s personal space with a suddenness that the hunter wasn’t expecting, not at all. “You’re obviously in love with your little angel. I’m not the only one who can see it, and it’s a weakness people are going to exploit - Heaven is no exception. Avoid the other angels if you want to get back.” And then he smiled, entirely too pleased with himself. “Tell Castiel I said hello.”

“Why the hell would he care about you, you little prick?” Dean said, trying (and failing) to push the demon away from him.

“I’m _hurt_. He never told you?” Crowley batted his eyes in an attempt at innocence. “We had a thing, him and I.”

Dean stared at him, mouth open.

“That’s right,” Crowley said, smirking outright. “I fucked your angel, and now I’ve fucked you. Enjoy your first time together with that lovely mental image to accompany it.” He mock-saluted toward Dean, winked lasciviously, and then vanished into thin air.

Dean stared at the wall for a good long time, swallowing hard, before he stormed out of the house. He could see Sam waiting in the passenger seat of the Impala across the street.

He flung himself into the car, trying _very_ hard to ignore the moist feeling between his asscheeks, and he handed the pen and coordinates over to Sam.

Sam stared at him in horror.

“Figure out where the hell that is,” Dean said, jabbing at the paper before he reached over to start the car.

“Dean -”

“Don’t,” Dean said, holding up a finger. “Just tell me where we’re going, Sam.”

Sam stared at him soulfully, before fumbling for his phone and bringing up the GPS application. “Is this the Heaven’s Gate?”

His voice sounded strange, almost distant; Dean gripped the steering wheel before shifting her into drive.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go get Cas.”

They certainly had a lot to talk about.  

**Author's Note:**

> Calico-Kat gave me a HELL of a prompt. Holy _shit_.
> 
> MUCH THANKS TO MISCHIEVOUSART FOR A VERY IMPROMPTU AND AWESOME BETA-READ. YOU SAVE MY ASS, DUDE. CONSTANTLY.
> 
> As usual, you can find me at my tumblr, disease-danger-darkness-silence.tumblr.com.


End file.
